


Head Full of Doubt

by navigator



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Romance, non-au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 07:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3110858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigator/pseuds/navigator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t use the word <em>marriage</em> very much—maybe they’e never used it at all, at least when referring to their own relationship—but Louis knows.</p><p>--</p><p>Marriage talk doesn't go as Louis had hoped, but it works out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head Full of Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> my pal [molly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/quitter) wrote bits and pieces of this so some credit goes to her and her good ideas. thanks to [ella](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eleadore) for being encouraging and ridiculously helpful, and also to [katie](http://relevantboyband.tumblr.com) for her input.
> 
> it wasn't my intention while writing, but this can easily fit into [true north](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1180563)-verse.
> 
> title comes from a song by [the avett brothers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEr9gMYdkHI).

A bag of weed and a countless number of films on demand in their New Orleans hotel room are the only two things Louis needs as an excuse to do absolutely nothing on their day off. Harry’s spent the last week with an awful cold and Louis’ spent it trying to juggle sympathy toward him while avoiding being sick himself, which he’s so far managed. After eight days he’s tired of not kissing him and even more tired of the pout Harry wears each time he’s denied.

It hasn’t stopped Harry from keeping busy, though. Just days ago he was writhing around on top a mechanical bull in Austin, much to Louis’ simultaneous dismay and delight.

But today they’re off and it’s noon and Louis and Harry are still wrapped up together beneath a comical number of blankets with the air conditioning so high that it’s easy to forget the weather outside is so hot and humid. Louis is a little concerned for the health and hydration of everyone waiting around at the entrance of the hotel; he felt like he was suffocating even walking in from the car late last night.

“What’s that face you’re making?” Harry asks, successfully snapping Louis out of a daze. He didn’t know he was making a face.

“Alright, no need to poke,” Louis whines quietly, batting Harry’s finger away from his face and circling his fist around it. “I was thinking that us watching music videos in bed all day reminds me of the old flat.”

Harry looks seriously at him, but his face is so close it’s mostly a blur. “What old flat?”

“Shut up.” Louis pinches his nipple and rolls away from him—or tries, but Harry’s laughing into his cheek and grabbing him with both hands, massaging him into submission.

“Music videos,” Harry says, to prove he was listening. “I like music videos.”

Momentarily distracted by the telly over Harry’s shoulder, Louis takes a second to stare at it before it goes to commercial and he looks back at Harry. “The old flat was the important part of that anecdote,” he says, snapping the waistband of Harry’s briefs.

“Right.” Harry wraps his arm around Louis’ waist and presses a kiss to his temple. “Feels like a lifetime ago. I was but a _child_ ,” Harry says, his voice affected with a grin at the last few words. “I thought I was so cool.”

“I did, too. I think it’s worse that I let you get away with it,” Louis says through a laugh. He likes when Harry acknowledges a time in his life when he looked stupid, because at the time even those stupid purple trainers weren’t enough to keep people from being utterly fascinated by him, Louis included. Harry had always been a magnet for attention. The good kind of attention.

“I was crazy about you,” Harry says, and it’s one of those things that only he can get away with—saying it without a hint of doubt, not shrouded in a joke or a grin to keep it from being too serious.

Louis smiles. “And now you hate me.”

Harry kisses him instead of answering, so unexpectedly tender that Louis’ stomach flutters. “Yes,” Harry whispers, finally pulling back. “I mean, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, but yeah, I actually hate you. ”

Sometimes they say things like that. The novelty of it hasn’t worn off yet and it never fails to flood Louis with adrenaline. They don’t use the word _marriage_ very much—maybe they’e never used it at all, at least when referring to their own relationship—but Louis knows. That’s kind of a terrifying, overwhelming thought to have, but there’s no one else he’s never loved the way he loves Harry. The more dramatic, uncertain, will-this-ever-happen moments of their relationship are long gone. They’ve settled into as much of a routine as they’re able while on tour and their consistency is a comfort rather than a bore.

Louis sometimes wonders if he’s missing out on something—though what could that _something_ even be, really?—by being so young and so sure of his relationship with Harry.

There’s no way, though. He would miss out on much more if he wasn’t with Harry. He would miss Harry.

“I mean, I guess that sounds alright?” Louis says with squinted eyes, doing his best to sound skeptical rather than pleased. “The rest of our lives.”

Harry’s fingers tickle Louis’ lower back. “I just like that you’re my future. Makes everything less scary.”

“And you’re afraid of everything.”

Harry grins, a lopsided one that Louis likes. “Correct. Mostly the dark”

He’d teased him, but Louis is practically on fire when he thinks about it. _His future,_ Louis thinks. Every time Harry talks about this Louis has to control himself and it’s just becoming nearly impossible when he says things with a surety that Louis never thought he would find. Having divorced parents left him feeling a bit uncomfortable about the idea of promises and engagements, but Harry talks like what they have will never end and it makes him believe it, too; that they’ll have a million more days like this one and they’ll never get used to how good it is.

Louis glances over at Harry again to see him looking placidly back in his direction and thinks, _I can say this_. It’s big, but it’s true, and fuck it. Harry’s the one who started this conversation in the first place.

“I like that we’ll be married someday,” Louis says.

But Harry is mid-yawn, so did he even hear it? And then he blinks at him sleepily, and Louis wonders for a horrifying second i he’s going to ask him to repeat what he said. He doesn’t, though; he just smiles at him and nods and rubs at a spot beneath his eye, distracted. “Yeah, babe.”

Louis has to stop himself from asking, “Is that it?” He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Harry when he used the word _married_ for the first time to his face, but it was more than that. 

Maybe he hadn’t sounded serious when he said it, though. Maybe it hadn’t come out sounding nearly as weighty as Louis heard it in his head.

Judging by the way Harry rolls onto his back and looks at the telly again, he probably doesn’t notice Louis avoiding his eyes when they break apart again.

“You want anything while I’m up?” Louis asks, stepping off of the bed and reaching for his luggage.

Harry makes a noise that sounds like _no_ while Louis digs through his bag for his bowl and the bag of weed wrapped up around it. He wasn’t planning on smoking more, but now he craves a distraction.

He packs the bowl in a rush and takes a hit, then walks toward the bed, stopping at the foot of it to tip his head back and exhale.

Harry rolls over and sits up, looking gorgeous and tired, His tanned skin is stark against the white sheets beneath him, and a muscle in his pec twitches as he extends his arm.

“Can I have a hit, babe?” Harry asks, making grabby hands until Louis passes it to him. He sits back down on the bed, clearing his throat. He reminds himself, as Harry lifts the bowl to his lips, that Harry’s a few years younger than him, and that when he was twenty years old he absolutely wouldn’t have thought seriously about marrying _anyone_. It’s quite a big ask for Harry to be on the same page as him all the time, but he still can’t shake the sinking feeling when he remembers Harry’s reaction. Or his non-reaction.

Louis accepts the bowl back and takes one more hit. He coughs through his exhale and laughs softly, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. His body is immediately more languid, which is alright. That’s what he needs.

He holds the bowl up to Harry without looking at him. “Want any more?”

Harry shakes his head and coughs into his elbow, too. Louis sits beside him again and lets that that boneless sensation take over as he melts into the mattress.

It’s better now. It’s already better. He tests it, tries to worry about what had concerned him before, but now it just seems silly. He can’t make himself care like he had just a few minutes before.

Harry’s still coughing to his left. Louis looks at him, amused.

“You’ve not smoked in a while, have you?”

Harry shrugs. “’s alright.”

However he’s feeling, it doesn’t stop him from crawling up and sitting himself down right on Louis’ lap, arms around his shoulders to hold onto him.

“You good, babe?” Harry murmurs, and tucks his face into the groove of Louis’ shoulder to set a kiss right below his ear. They weren’t about to do this, were they? The kisses aren’t an unpleasant surprise, but all of this is a little sudden and careful, and Louis wonders if Harry could sense Louis’ tension and if he’s now overcompensating for something. Maybe Louis didn’t play off the aftermath as well as he thinks he did.

Still, it feels good, and he’s already a little too high to give a shit. It’s mostly in his body, so every touch is amplified and good and right. His hands are on the bed beside him and he’s content just to let Harry do as he pleases, to show off or kiss his neck until they both get bored of it. When Louis focuses on the way Harry’s lips trail their way down the side of his throat, it’s so easy to forget before, both what he’d said and what Harry hadn’t said.

“You’ll leave a mark,” Louis says, his voice lazy. It’s barely a warning, mostly just a reminder that they have show tomorrow. His muscles feel loose and receptive underneath Harry’s touch when he strokes up his abs and around the swell of his shoulders, palming at every inch of him.

“Since when do you follow the rules?” Harry kisses the same spot one more time and then curls his hands around Louis’ face, drawing him into a quick kiss and rocking against his lap. “Am I crushing you?”

Louis shakes his head. It’s fine. Nothing has rough edges anymore and Harry might as well be weightless.

It’s so good, actually, that Louis is pretty sure he was made to do just this when he’s a little high, like his tongue has never felt better against Harry’s and his body has never been more touchable. Harry kisses turn rushed and filthy, making them both gasp for air against each others’ mouths. When he slows down enough to pull back, he sucks Louis’ bottom lip between his teeth until it stings. Louis licks it over and marvels at how it’s ballooned, how it feels hot and throbbing.

Louis crosses his thumbs in front of Harry’s throat as he kisses his jaw, pressing lightly there and kissing over the same spot, eventually finding his lips. His own still burn, and yet:

“Do it again,” he tells him.

Harry groans and then obliges, kissing his top lip first, then the bottom, sucking at it like he’d done before. This is what Louis wants. He doesn’t want to be married, probably, and he doesn’t want to think about the future. He wants Harry to keep rolling his hips like that, and he wants him to guide Louis’ hands to his ass like he’s doing right then.

Louis grunts and pushes up and Harry does the same, only he reaches for the waistband of Louis’ joggers and tries his best to pull them down. There’s no room unless Louis gets up, and both of them laugh softly, sleepily as Louis lifts his hips and Harry pulls down and Louis’ pants and joggers come down enough to let his cock slap lightly against his lower belly. Louis reaches for it and looks up at Harry, whose eyes are nearly half shut.

Harry licks his lips. “Can I ride you?”

“I think you’ve proven to the world you can ride just about anything,” Louis says, thinking of the bull.

Harry’s dimple shows; he looks pleased with himself, but tries to play it down. “Reckon I can do better on you. Come on,” Harry says, raking both hands back through Louis’ hair with force he normally reserves for when he’s fucking _him_. The way he uses it against him right then is enough to make Louis a bit petulant; he pulls Harry’s hand away and guides it down to his cock.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Harry admits, speaking so low that it’s almost a slur. He pulls on Louis’ cock and Louis grabs his ass again, tugging him closer.

“No audience this time,” Louis says, shoving his hands beneath the fabric of Harry’s pants and he his fingers over his hole, just enough to make him twitch. “You okay with that?”

Harry’s hand falters on Louis’ dick only when he feels his finger press against him again. “You’re my audience.”

Sober, Louis might have blushed at that. Harry always made good on his promises to put on a show for him, and he bloody _loved_ the attention.

“We’ll see about that,” Louis says, smiling lazily. He abruptly pulls his hand away, moving it up Harry’s back. If Harry really does want to make it up to him without actually knowing what he did wrong, he’s not going to stop him.

“Okay.” Harry is even calmer, if possible, than usual. He arches his back, belly soft, pushing out when he gathers his hair back and ties it into a bun. It’s so sexy and even if Harry knows that—and maybe especially if he doesn’t know that—it’s one of the most frustrating parts about being in love with him. Even people who aren’t in love with him surely must find it maddening how undeniable he is.

“Do you have lube in here?” Harry asks, starting to laugh. Louis knows why; it’s a stupid question, first of all, and also they’re high, and every question can be funny if asked in the right way. Harry gets up without waiting for an answer, and Louis can see his lower back is already a little red from where he’s dug in his nails. He wants it red, all of it.

Harry chucks the lube at him from across the room and lumbers his way back over while Louis dribbles some onto his fingertips, letting it run far down. Harry pulls off his boxer briefs and Louis tells him, “Sit.”

“Mhm.” Harry holds onto Louis’ cock like it’s a handle and settles onto Louis’ thighs, angling his dick so it’s resting right against his hole. “God, that’s gonna feel good,” he whispers, eyes shut and his head back, exposing all of his throat. Louis tugs on his necklace until Harry looks at him again, waiting until their eyes lock to press in one slippery finger, working him over slowly, stretching him, whispering encouragements to get Harry to relax.

But he’s already relaxed, of course. His grin is lazy and he hides it against the side of Louis’ neck, so comfortable being touched. It took Louis a longer time to get to that point with him, unembarrassed and eager just to feel good no matter how desperate it made him look.

So focused on working a second finger into Harry, Louis doesn’t even realize he’s got his eyes closed, lips parted, dazed and focused only on the single task at hand. Harry catches his jaw with his finger and looks at him through half-opened, bloodshot eyes. “No kiss?”

Louis flicks his gaze from Harry’s mouth and back up, amused. “Can’t have everything.”

“Why not?” Harry’s pout is wrecked by that same lazy grin, and he doesn’t answer, he just leans in and brushes their lips together as Louis presses two fingers in completely. Harry gasps and Louis almost pulls out, apologetic, but Harry reaches behind him and arches his back and shakes his head. Louis pumps his fingers and Harry circles his hips and makes little noises while he works.

“That’s enough,” Harry gasps after a minute, too soon.

It’s really not, but Louis completely understands the urge to speed up the process when all he wants to do is see how Harry can bounce on his cock. He wants to yank his hair free of that bun and let him set the pace, let him show Louis just how good he can be.

“You’re just desperate to get fucked, is that it?” Louis asks, touching his free hand so lightly over Harry’s cock that it’s more of a tease than anything else. He presses kisses to the side of Harry’s neck and whispers there: “Just want to show me how you ride dick?”

Harry inhales sharply, his hand clamping down over his own cock. “Let me show you, then,” he says back.

Fuck it. It might be too soon, but his judgment is a little impaired and he’s tired of waiting and he wants to feel him and he wants to see it, the way the veins pop out from the side of his neck and his jaw pushes forward when he gets that pained look on his face.

“Okay, babe,” he whispers, pulling his fingers free and wiping them on Harry’s lower back. He lets Harry do the guiding, lets him figure out the best angle, lets him do it all as Louis sits back and watches and stops breathing until the very moment he feels the head of his cock start to press in.

“Yes,” he says, and Harry says it, too, at the same time. There’s nothing better than this. That hyperbolic thought is brought to him by weed, probably, but it’s not that much of an exaggeration. 

He sits up onto his hands and waits for Harry to accommodate himself, biting his nipple just to provide him with a diversion from the sting he knows too well. It takes Harry a few tries and by the time he sits down completely his nipple is red and swollen, wrecked by Louis’ mouth.

“Ah, fuck, that hurts,” Harry cries out, eyes squinting shut, blissful despite working through that pain. He’s so tight it feels like he’s squeezing around Louis’ dick, but he knows he isn’t even trying.

“Yeah, you feel good,” Louis rushes out, leaning up to plant a kiss between the birds and then holding onto his hips to gain a little more control, fed up with Harry’s jerky rocking motions and self-indulgent hip rolls that don’t do more than tease Louis.

“These are so hot,” Louis says for the hundredth time, probably, thumbs brushing over the laurels. “You fucking tart.”

“I think you love it.” Harry grins at him. He sets the pace, then, still slow but better as he really rides him, shaking the whole time, swearing through it all for the first few minutes. He presses both hands against Louis’ chest until he’s lying flat with both arms overhead, watching Harry move. He has no sense of how long they’ve been at it, just that it keeps getting better and that everything Harry does is _enough_ , and every time he thinks he can’t get deeper, Harry leans forward or rocks back and makes them both groan again.

It’s not until he’s close that he tries to reach for Harry’s dick. He hasn’t even wanked him yet, but it’s a shame to miss out on the way Harry’s dick bounces back up against his muscled stomach each time he lets lifts his hips and drops them down again. Louis licks his palm and strokes him then, tight, feeling the vein pulse beneath his fingers. “You want to come?” he asks, because he does.

“You come first,” Harry says, breathless. His muscles must ache—Louis’ do when he’s on top for that long—but he seems determined to finish this way. “Look so good,” he adds, raking a hand back through Louis’ hair and kissing him, making Louis pliant just for that second. “Love you,” he says, and somehow it isn’t out of place right now. That’s when Louis starts to let go. He holds onto Harry’s hips with both hands, squeezing so hard he’ll leave bruises, trying to steady Harry so he can fuck up into him fast and hard, slapping, hurting _himself_ from how quickly he’s going at him before he finally feels it—

It’s pure bliss, coming inside of him. His muscles just stop working and he falls apart, cognizant enough only to keep one hand on Harry’s dick, stroking him hard. He lets Harry use his dick like that, lets him ride until his pace is fast—too fast to last long. He doesn’t, after that, and Louis feels it before he sees it, the come on his hand and Harry’s belly dripping down onto them both.

“God,” Harry breathes and slumps over to crush Louis properly under his weight. Louis’ cock slips out, and they each produce a series of groans and whines to go along with that feeling—empty on Harry’s hand, incredibly sensitive on Louis’.

They both flatten out, lying belly-up while they catch their breath.

“I might need my inhaler,” Harry says, and Louis has to look at him first to make sure he’s joking. “I’m calling the doctor to tell him you made my asthma worse.”

“I’ll get him on the phone.” Louis rolls to his side, propping his head up on his palm. It’s not possible that he’s sobered up so quickly, but he feels far less hazy than he’d been even twenty minutes earlier. “Need a shower?”

Harry nods and puckers his lips, his universal sign for _give me one_. Louis does, lets it linger for a moment. “You coming?” he asks, but Harry shakes his head.

“You go first.” He kisses him again. “Can’t move yet.”

Harry reaches for the remote as Louis pads off in the direction of the showers. He only turns on the heat lamp so it’s nearly dark while he rinses off; the thought of anything bright or harsh makes him want to crawl back under the covers, and it’s nice, not having to open his eyes, not thinking about one thing in particular. He remembers the way Harry said he loved him, and thinks that it ought to be enough—it _is_ enough. To love and to be loved by someone, especially Harry, is all he could hope for.

He twists off the water and then towels dry. When he heads back into the bedroom, Harry’s already asleep.

**

In the morning he tries to work it out: why does he care so much? Staring at the ceiling while Harry breathes evenly next to him, he knows in his heart that Harry loves him. He believes that he always will, no matter what happens.

He also knows Harry is younger than him. Not only is he younger, but he’s younger and he’s _everywhere_ and he likes everyone and he wants to do everything. He wants to travel for a thousand years and he wants to learn languages and he never wants to stop moving. Those are things Louis loves about him and those are things he’s accepted as part of himself, too.

He rolls over and faces him and traces his profile with his eyes. He knows it by heart, and it looks especially beautiful right now. He’s backlit by the morning sun, glowing all over.

Possibly the most frustrating aspect of Louis’ hurt feelings is that he doesn’t even _want_ to get married right now. It’s not something he thinks about everyday and it’s not even something he wants to do in the foreseeable future. It was just the way Harry replied, almost blowing him off, when Louis had worked up all of his courage to say it to him in the first place. Something more than a yawned response would have been nice.

The weight of his stare is enough to wake Harry up, apparently. He looks over at him and catches him staring. “What’s going on?”

“Morning,” Louis says, “Think I’m going to head out soon.”

“Shit, did I sleep in?” Harry starts to sit up, but stops when Louis shakes his head no.

“No, I just heard from Zayn. Thought I’d go over there while you worked out.” He just made that up, but Zayn is always in his room. It’s a safe lie.

“Oh.” Harry frowns. They had plans to spend the morning together, and Louis suspects that’s the reason for his confusion. “Okay. I’ll go to the gym, I think. Pump some iron.”

Louis smiles and rolls his eyes, which is tugs a smile out of Harry.

The gesture seems to have worked, because Harry’s face softens and he smiles up at him, wanton and lovely. “I’m going to have the longest shower of my life,” he announces as he sits up. Louis lets him kiss him with his morning breath and they part ways, Harry toward the shower, Louis toward the door. “See you in a bit.”

Louis nods, calls out, “Love you.”

Harry kisses his fingers and then waves them at Louis from the bathroom. “Love you.”

And that’s enough. That’s really all that matters.

**

Six shows and ten days later, the Where We Are Tour is over.

Doing anything for six months makes it particularly strange to stop abruptly, but Louis is ready for a break. Night after night of being _on_ can really start to wear him down in ways he doesn’t even realize. It’s not the performances so much as the constant motion, the late nights on the bus when they’re all too electrified to fall asleep. He’ll miss it in two weeks, he knows, but right now, he’s ready for the end.

The last week hasn’t felt right, anyway, and that makes the whole ‘end of an era’ thing a lot easier to stomach. Maybe it was knowing it would all end soon that made Louis mentally check out, or maybe it was the hint of a cold he picked up for the last few days. His conversation with Harry had been weighing on him since that night, though, and he hates that it’s affecting him so much, but he can’t let it go.

It’s fucking irrational. He _knows._ Harry had barely said anything that would lead him to believe that he’s put off by the idea of being married someday, and still Louis is filling in the blanks himself in the worst way possible. He just can’t _stop_. It’s baffling and maddening and the sort of headspace he hasn’t been in for a while, and he refuses to bring it up to him because it’s useless, which makes him cranky and on edge and terrified. He doesn’t even know where that fear comes from, but that’s the most prominent side effect of their conversation. He’s scared.

But it means everything to him, being with Harry. They’d promised each other forever so many times, so why isn’t that enough?

He’s seen people leave, though. He’s watched marriages end, and Harry has, too. Maybe children of divorce aren’t meant to believe in marriage. He probably wouldn’t blame him if that’s how he feels.

Variations of every previous thought have become a terrible sort of mantra in Louis’ head over the last ten days and, armed with one sleeping pill and a first class seat on a flight back to London, Louis intends to do his best to forget about it.

Harry’s sat in the seat adjacent to his so that, when the dividers are down, they could look right at each other. They’ve only been in the air for an hour and people are already switching off their lights and curling up with pillows and blankets, and Louis’ intention is to do the same until he hears a _psst_.

“You up, Lou?”

He sits up on his hands and looks at Harry from behind the divider. “Nope, fast asleep.”

Harry grins and walks round the way to Louis’ seat, perching himself on the edge of the chair.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, giving his leg a squeeze; it’s about as daring as they usually get on commercial flights. The touch makes Louis tense up; he’s still on edge. It should make him happy that Harry’s come to see him, that he’s sneaking his hand up the length of his shin, soothing.

It doesn’t, though. Louis can’t even enjoy it. He’s so sick of feeling terrible.

“Was just watching this stupid film,” Louis says, tugging his earbuds out and letting them fall beside him. “I’m actually not that tired.”

Harry nods. “I’m not either,” he says, and then does something Louis will never get over, even though it’s the simplest thing: he just looks at him. He really looks. He doesn’t say anything, he just _stares_ , searching for something. Moments like those are normally followed by a kiss, but that won’t happen, not in public.

It’s that look that makes Louis want to talk, though. That look of Harry’s belongs to him only, and it’s the look of someone who’s there for him. Harry would want him to feel better, Louis thinks.

“D’you feel alright?” Louis asks, hoping that Harry might say no, that he could admit to feeling weird, too, so Louis can feel less alone in wondering what that one offhand remark had done to him ten days ago. He doesn’t even want an apology, he just wants Harry to understand. He wants to tell him, but he needs a reason.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” Harry says quickly, nodding. It’s his instinct to reassure Louis by acting strong about things. He frowns and squeezes Louis’ leg, that telltale line forming between his brows. “Do you?”

Even though it’s Louis who practically forced the question out of him, it still comes close to shattering his resolve. He’d expected it, and he’s still shaken with the anticipation of telling him the truth, finally.

“Not really, babe,” he says, covering his face with his hands and taking in a slow, shuddery breath. He reaches up with one arm to shut off the overhead light, hoping it’d buy them a little more privacy.

“What?” Harry asks, concerned. “What’s going on? You can tell me.”

Louis uncovers his face and blinks a few times, fighting off the sting of tears forming out of pure frustration more than anger or sadness. 

“Um,” he starts, drawing another shaky breath. His voice quavers when he speaks and he hates it. “I’m just having a rough time after—in New Orleans, what we talked about.”

“New Orleans?” Harry looks confused, confirming Louis’ fears that that conversation hadn’t meant half as much to him. “What? Sorry, I can’t remember—“

“The wedding. Thing.” Louis brushes his finger underneath his nose, embarrassed, now, and unable to stop shaking.

“Did I say something?”

Louis knows that Harry wouldn’t play dumb during an argument like this, but he’s still annoyed that he has to say it again. His cheeks burn up and he says, voice tight, “You didn’t say anything, actually. When I talked about getting married.”

Harry licks his lips slowly, still frowning, almost defensive. “We’ve talked about that before, haven’t we? Getting married?”

“Jesus Christ,” Louis sighs, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t been expecting Harry to argue with him about it; he didn’t want to have to be so explicit in regards to what scared him about that conversation, but he doesn’t have a choice now.

“What?”

“No, we hadn’t talked about it before. Not like like that. I said I wanted to be married to you and you said ‘ _Yeah_ ’ and left it at that.” Louis inhales a shaky, deep breath, trying not to raise his voice. “And it really fucked with me.” 

“Louis.” Harry’s face softens a bit, and Louis can’t watch. “You know that’s actually what I want, right? I just assumed we were, I dunno, kind of thinking the same way about it.”

“Right, and so did I. Then you just--ignored me.” Louis swallows, his eyes meeting Harry’s. “I’d never used that word before. And you made me regret it.”

“No, hey.” Harry shakes his head and he looks fierce, almost angry. “Babe, that’s not--I don’t want you to regret that, alright? I didn’t know. I had no idea you.”

“Okay.” Louis holds up his hand, trying to stop him before he can keep giving excuses. “I believe you.” Louis’ looks down at his hands, at Harry’s squeezing them. It’s so stupid; he feels so stupid that this has turned into a bigger deal than it ought to have.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Harry says slowly. He seems so surprised by all of this, which is both frustrating and comforting. “I loved hearing you say that. I should’ve told you when said it how happy it made me. You deserve to know that.” 

“Okay.” Louis tries to sound firm, but the way Harry’s looking at him makes him want to crumple. “I don’t know why it scared me so much. I just needed to tell you.”

“I’m sorry, babe,” Harry says, twisting his fingers around Louis’ and then letting go. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and then pulls Louis in close and tucks his face against his chest. Louis can’t remember the last time they hugged in what was considered a public space, but he really doesn’t care.

“Please, please, please, please don’t be scared,” Harry whispers against his ear. “There’s nothing I want more than to be your husband.”

He sits back and looks at him. “Anytime, anywhere,” Harry says, nodding at him, eyebrows raised, like he’s waiting for him to confirm. “I mean it. That’s my happy place, thinking about that.”

Hearing it now, put so simply, he _did_ know that. He always knew, and he’d still let it become this festering wound of a thought that he couldn’t heal until it infected every part of him. Louis doesn’t usually need to be reassured; he was born resilient and hates to ask for reassurance, but with Harry he usually doesn’t have to.

“I’m sorry.” Louis sniffs and scratches his cheek. “I dunno what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing,” Harry says firmly. He doesn’t speak again until Louis looks right at him. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Okay.”  Louis just nods. There’s no use arguing with that look.  “You did make me feel better.”

“Good.” Harry squeezes again. “You know I wasn’t just saying that to make you feel better, though.”

“No, it’s fine. I know. I think I already knew it, anyway, I just had a long week of being all—“ He crosses his eyes and ruffles his hair, trying to indicate how out of his mind he’s felt. “Reckon I just needed to hear it.” It’s not easy for him to admit these things, and Harry knows. He does something good, though, which is that he never makes a big deal out of it when Louis bares himself the way he is now. He doesn’t make him feel like it’s huge or it’s embarrassing. He reacts perfectly to him; he’s always been like that.

“Alright.” Harry sighs, then nudges him. “Move over.”

“We’ve all tried this, darling, and it never works—“

“No, it’s fine, look—“

Harry wedges himself between Louis and the armrest, stubbornly insisting that he is small. It does feel comfortable, though, even if it’s a bit risky. Everyone is asleep and Louis hasn’t seen a flight attendant for a half hour. He likes the way Harry feels next to him and he doesn’t fancy the idea of lying down by himself just yet.

“You can’t expect me to just leave you alone after that,” Harry says, adopting his Louis-be-reasonable tone of voice. He drops his head down and touches his jaw quickly, smiling a little. “Mr. Sad Eyes.”

Louis shuts his eyes at that, knowing it’s true. “Can’t help it,” he rasps, rubbing beneath them with his two pointer fingers. Harry doesn’t say anything else, he just reaches for Louis’ waist, and Louis tips his forehead down to press them against Harry’s lips, letting him place a kiss there. He really does feel better, but there’s fragility to everything, like even the happy, nice aspects of their conversation could make him break if he thinks about them too much. It’s just nice to feel good after ten long days.

He moves back, but only a little, and not enough to let anyone think they’re doing anything other than snuggling uncomfortably on a too-small airplane bed.

Harry clears his throat and smooths down the hair at the base of Louis’ neck. “You know what I was thinking?”

“Hm?”

“Remember when Zayn and Perrie first got engaged?”

“I remember that, yes,” Louis says, skeptical and amused. “What about it?”

Harry pauses, his lips spreading into a wide smile before he even speaks. Louis has to pinch him to get him to talk. “I was just jealous,” he admits at last, then wrinkles his nose. “Is that stupid?”

Louis laughs softly; it feels good. “No.”

“It’s not? I mean, I just felt, you know. I had this moment of, like, it should be us.” Harry grimaces, then covers his face with one hand. “That’s _terrible,_ ” he laughs out. “Don’t ever repeat that.”

It would be easy to tease him about it if Louis hadn’t felt the same. He was ashamed of it then and he’s still a little ashamed of it.

“I’ve got something worse,” he says. Harry’s hand finds his waist and it’s not even below the blanket.

“What?” he asks, eyes wild, excited by what could possibly be worse than what they’ve already confessed to.

“I sort of felt like that at my mum’s wedding.” Louis really does laugh then and has to bite his lip to stop. “Fuck, we’re the worst people ever.”

“No one will come to our wedding if they find out.”

“We wouldn’t deserve them, anyway.”

“Doris will be there.” Harry grins. “I think Doris _really_ likes me.”

“Doris is an infant,” Louis says with the air of having said this to Harry multiple times, because he has. “And I’m her brother. She can’t love you more. She’s engineered to like me best.”

“Anyway,” Harry says lightly, doing that annoying thing he does when he won’t let Louis argue with him over something pointless. “I don’t think it makes us the worst. I think they’d understand.”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees. “I dunno. I don’t even, like, want it to be us right _now_.”

Harry looks at him with one eyebrow raised.

“I don’t, honestly,” Louis insists, though that might not be true. If Harry suggested they get married in a year, he wouldn’t say no.

“Someday it’ll be us,” Harry says. “I’ve always known that.”

Louis purses his lips. “No you didn’t.”

“I did. I was just done for as soon as you came ‘round,” Harry says. “I’m still so in love.” He whispers the last part, his eyes fixed on Louis’.

“You’re a sop,” Louis tells him, his eyes soft. “Love you, babe.”

“Good,” Harry says. “Because you’re stuck with me.” He picks up Louis’ hand and presses a kiss to his left ring finger, right on the spot a ring would go.

The gesture feels bigger and better than any verbal promise possibly could. No one else can make him feel the way Harry’s made him feel right now. He knows he’s not easy, but Harry makes him feel easy.

Louis smiles so wide that his eyes squint, and ducks his head down on Harry’s shoulder to hide it. What he didn’t tell Harry is that he’s always known, too. He’s always known it will be them someday.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on also on [tumblr](http://quitefinished.tumblr.com). thank you for reading :)


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